


How To Exist In A Cracked Lens

by Squash (Squashers)



Series: History Of Melancholia [11]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, Recovery, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squashers/pseuds/Squash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been doing so well. Why does everything feel like a lie? Suddenly he just can't imagine being a person, can't deal with anything but sleeping and staring at the wall. He can't stand being himself. How does he do this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Exist In A Cracked Lens

**Author's Note:**

> This one takes place between Chutes And Ladders and See What Help Will Do.  
> Trigger warning for suicide attempt and general downward spiral of depression.

It's been a month like any other: drag himself out of bed and go to classes and go to the Musain to listen to Enjolras and fool around with the rest of the Amis, visit Charlotte every other weekend, actually smile and laugh and feel relatively good, make art, all of that. He's been pretty okay for a while, feeling better and getting out and doing homework and functioning. Just a regular couple of months. Only today Grantaire wakes up feeling leaden and foggy. Not like a cold; that's a different kind of muffled, a physical one he can feel in his ears and nose and sinuses. This is the other kind.

Sitting through his classes is suddenly exponentially harder, he can barely pay attention or function enough to take notes. Things aren't registering in his brain. He spends the first few days trying to push it away, trying to battle it. It's hard to breathe through the litany of thoughts his mind has conjured up to pin him to the floor: _there is nothing of value left in you. You've been faking this whole time, you can't do any of this. You're only going to fail at this like you fail at everything else in your life. Why are you even trying to make art when you just suck at it and barely ever finish anything. You think those people are your friends, but they just think you're annoying and full of shit. Really, you could disappear and no one would notice or even care._

It's not like he can prove himself wrong.

“Grantaire, are you ready for the art history test?” Jehan trots to catch up with him in the hall, Enjolras in tow. Shit. He'd forgotten about that test.

“Um. Nope.”

“I studied all last night and I still have no idea if I've memorized enough names.”

“I didn't study at all.” He sees Enjolras shoot him a look. He shrugs and concentrates on the scuffed toes of his shoes. “If you're a massive fuck up and you know you're gonna fail clap your hands?”

“You're not a fuck up.” Jehan pats him on the shoulder. Grantaire feels himself tense.

“There are a lot of people that will contest that, I think. I'm well aware that I'm an asshole who shouldn't be here. Plus, I have personal experience in just how much of a fuck up I can be.”

“You should at least try.” Enjolras suggests.

“Yeah, you should try,” Jehan is nodding, smiling. “You never know what will happen.”

Grantaire knows what will happen. He tries. It doesn't go very well.

For a week or so Grantaire clings to the thought that Charlotte might be disappointed in him if he stops going to class or doesn't make an effort, that she'll think him a coward if he gives in to the thoughts. That he's older than many of the people he hangs around at this school, he should be able to function as well or better than any of them. That he should prove to Charlotte that he can do this like she thinks, with classes and friends and all. After little while, though, he can't bring himself to care. She shouldn't have to deal with his shit, anyway. He's twenty-two, he should be able to take care of himself and his own stupid bullshit. But he can't, he's a failure, and no one should have to deal with his incapable ass being glued to the bed for days at a time and his drowning brain yanking him down.

He's been experimenting more in the past few months with capturing his problems through the camera. It's a quicker way to express himself, with less effort than drawing for the days when he feels like he can't even move. He unpacks his camera and gets a few shot of his reflection in the window. He can see the swollen redness around his eyes and the bags beneath them, the exhausted look in his expression despite the number of hours in the day that he spends in bed. He looks like a fucking hopeless mess. He shouldn't even show his face to the public. He gets back in bed and shoves his face into the pillow for the rest of the day, pretending his classes don't exist, pretending the people outside don't exist, pretending his phone doesn't exist, pretending _he_ doesn't exist.

It hasn't been this bad in a while, not in this way. Suddenly he just can't imagine being a person, can't deal with anything but sleeping and staring at the wall. He can't stand being himself. The crawling in his veins makes him want to strip his skin from his body. He's exhausted for no reason other than the fact that his brain is screaming at him about how useless he is, how much he's a worthless stupid failure who can't even deal with existing, much less college. He's a loser addict with no social skills and no hope. He should just disappear so he stops being an asshole to everyone he meets. He wishes he could sedate himself so he'd leave himself alone. His chest feels like it's full of holes.

He chain smokes instead of eating. His bones ache.

And he hates that he thought he'd be fine, that he'd get better, that he _was_ getting better. Because it's so obvious, he'll never get better. He'll always just fall back down that fucking hole and lie there in his own filth. What's the use of doing anything, what's the use of sticking around and working on pulling yourself up out of all this if you're only going to drop back down to where you were before? Why try if you're only going to want to lie there and vanish? What's the point?

\--------------------

He shows up at the meeting at the Musain for the first time in two weeks just to try and convince himself that he's not a useless failure. Maybe he can fake being a person if he can make it through this. He knows he's pretending he can function and do this shit, but maybe that's better than nothing? He's not sure.

He can feel people staring when he sits down with his glass of water. He's pretty sure he's got a good growth of scraggly beard, and he's not exactly sure when he last changed his clothes, and he probably looks exhausted and used up and disgusting. They're probably wondering why he's even here, since these meetings were so much easier without him. He's only a burden, only a piece of shit that interrupts and bothers them at every turn. He fucks up people's plans or throws them off task. He can't help it. He's just a screw-up. It's no wonder none of them want him around. God, he wishes he didn't have these thoughts. He wishes he didn't know they were all true.

Enjolras makes the usual introductions about the meeting for any newcomers, then gathers his papers together and takes a breath. Grantaire watches, but it feels like he's looking at everything through distorted glass, like he's watching a movie on a broken television set. The edges of his vision feel foggy and dark.

“As you all know, we've recently been working on a program to campaign for a raising of the minimum wage and increase in employee benefits for low-income workers and menial labor or part-time employees.” Sounds lovely in theory, Grantaire thinks, but it's probably impossible in practice. Enjolras gestures to the room at large. Despite the all-encompassing motion, Grantaire can't help but feel like he is not included in the gesture. “So to further the agenda we'll be looking for backers with more money, seeing if we can get some larger donations from actual companies as opposed to for-profit organizations and random single donors.”

Grantaire scoffs and shakes his head, finger tracing the rim of his glass of water. Somehow, Enjolras notices.

“What is it, Grantaire?”

“Nothing. I just want to know how you think you're going to get backing from big companies that benefit from giving workers the lowest possible wages. They're not going to buckle no matter how much pressure you put on them. They benefit from the bullshit minimum wages. You aren't going to get anywhere.”

Enjolras sighs. “I know, but we have to try. If we _don't_ try, we won't get anywhere. If we at least make an attempt, maybe there will be some change. Something might happen.”

“I seriously doubt it. But you go ahead.”

Enjolras purses his lips, clearly rather annoyed at the interruption. “We will. Anyway--” Grantaire turns away from the hopelessly optimistic way Enjolras resumes his speech, startling at the way Jehan is staring at him from his seat.

“You all right, Grantaire? That didn't sound too heartening.”

“No, it's okay.” He'd forgotten that they haven't seen him like this before. Not this bad. “I am a small black rain cloud. Bringing down the mood is what I'm good at, and people run away when they see me.”

Jehan doesn't seem to know how to respond to that; he only frowns and focuses on Enjolras again. Oh good, everyone's pissed off at him now. It's only fair, it's not like he contributes anything but dissent and pointless cynicism to this group anyway. They don't really need him here, they don't really want him here. He gets up, edging his way around the chairs shoved in a pack around Enjolras' oration corner.

Bossuet catches sight of him at the edge of the group. “What's the matter? Where are you going?”

Grantaire pretends he doesn't see Enjolras looking towards them, listening. What does he care anyway? “You're all better off without me around. I'm just getting myself out of your hair. I'll leave you to your revolutions.”

He's out the door before any of them can respond, trudging toward his dorm, nails digging into his palms. For the first time in a year, for the first time since he found these people who call themselves his friends, his throat aches and his chest feels so hollow and his hands clench and _god_ he wants a drink. It's been bad before since he got to university, but not like this. He feels himself falling and there's nothing he can do.

Grantaire gets back into bed, feeling exhausted and pathetic. It's like his ribs have been slowly pulled apart until there's nothing but a big empty space inside him. Nothing is okay. He can't think or breathe or cry; it feels like his whole body has been tied to bricks and tossed underwater. He wants a drink and he wants to sleep and he wants to tear himself apart until he's nothing anymore and he doesn't have to deal with his own torturous skull or the body that houses it.

It's been too many years of this and he thought maybe it had gotten better, just a little better. Of course he hadn't. Of course. He's still stuck with himself, that wasn't about to change. And he's always been a useless waste of a human being. He'll always end up back in this pit. He's not sure if he can take this again. He's not sure if he wants to.

\---------------------

All he can hear is the sound of his own breath in his ears, in his head, erratic and rough. God, he wants it to stop, wants all the thudding and panting and swishing and rushing to just shut up and stop reminding him that he is alive and existing. It's all too much to think about.

There is tar in his arteries instead of blood and he feels like nothing is real anymore, like maybe this is all just some fucked up nightmare dream. He knows it's not and that only makes it worse. He didn't think it would get this bad this fast, but it's just slammed into him and everything is crumbling and warping and breaking down. He feels like his veins are tangled in each other, tangled in his bones. None of this is ever going to be okay, ever, not even if he tries his hardest. He will always be a failure and everyone will always grow tired of him and hate him and he will always be a worthless addict and he will always be a useless lump of shit.

His phone buzzes a few times and he pretends it doesn't exist. Yet another thing feeding him the bullshit idea that anyone wants anything to do with him, that anyone wants to speak with him at all. He checks it finally when he rolls over and it buzzes against his ribcage. It's a text from Charlotte; she wants him to call tomorrow and then take the bus and come over this weekend to hang out. He says okay. He doesn't know why. Why the fuck should he make her think about or worry about his problems? She doesn't need that.

His own leaden weight is pulling him down; everything is heavy and fragile and he's not sure if he can even move, or if he even should. Why is he still here, in this university where he's getting a degree that's useless and he can't even get out of bed to go do it? He's just been lying here for days, smoking and staring at the wall, no thoughts in his foggy head. He's just taking up the space that some other, better person could be using. Why is he still here around these people, the Amis, his sister, his teachers, his parents, just taking up their time and disappointing them or annoying them or making their lives harder with every failure he has? Why is he even here at all, existing, like he even deserves to be here? He doesn't deserve this. No one deserves him being here.

And being here would mean going through _this_ again and again. Being here means thinking he's better and then suddenly knowing he's not, being here means lying in bed unable to move while everyone else is laughing and running around outside, _functioning_ , and he can't even lift his hand to check his phone. Being here means tearing open a wound over and over again before it ever gets a chance to heal, pouring salt inside and scratching so it does nothing but sting and bleed. Being here means knowing that he's just going to fall forever, stuck in a sucking black hole he'll never, ever get out of.

He can't do it. He can't. He can't keep doing this over and over again, having his hopes dashed, setting the bar so fucking low and still being disappointed. He should have known already that he'd fail; his cornerstone is a stumbling block and he's never stopped falling. He can't deal with the way his throat aches and his hands itch. He can't keep feeling the cold ache in his bones and the fogginess in his head and the way everything is huge and terrifying and exhausting and even existing is too fucking hard for a lump like him. He hates that he feels like crying at the smallest thing. He will always be a tangle of foggy black thoughts, and hate, and general self-loathing What a pathetic waste. No wonder no one wants him around. Why should he blame them? He should just disappear and take himself out of their life so they don't have to deal with him, so they don't have to pretend they like him just to be nice. He knows he's not wanted. God, he doesn't even want himself.

If he just goes away, he won't have to deal with himself anymore. Other people won't have to be around him anymore. He won't have to keep doing this. His head aches. He's so tired. He just wants to disappear. God, he just wants to _stop being_.

\---------------------

He doesn't look at the photograph he takes of himself; he knows what he'll see. An empty, emaciated shell of a person with swollen eyes and greasy, unkempt hair and bloody fingernails curled on top of his sheets because he doesn't have the energy to get under them. A useless, shiftless bag of skin that doesn't even have a soul for the camera to steal. A creature nobody likes and nobody wants, who has no reason to continue existing. Something so pale you can see each of his organs and every knobbled bone; a ghost in his own body. Something meant to fade away and be forgotten. He puts the camera down on the desk; he doesn't need it anymore. He just wants to stop being awake and feeling.

There's no actual, solidified thought that comes with his actions. There's no actual decision. There's a difference between the constant quiet thought of dying that comes with depression and this. The bottles of Xanax and Tylenol and his useless Anafranil are in a cluster on his desk. His whole body aches; he swallows them down indiscriminately with nothing in his head. He doesn't think “I am going to kill myself” or “I'm going to write a note and then be done with it all.” There is no note. He just wants to stop feeling like shit. He just wants his head to stop aching. Mostly, he just wants to sleep.

He crawls back into bed and curls up. His head still hurts, and he sort of wishes he'd thought to put some music on to distract him from his own brain. He wants to roll over, but he finds that he can't. His body isn't responding to what he's telling it to do. He's too hot and too cold at once, but he can't move to adjust the covers. It scares him that he can't move,can't even curl his hand into a fist, can only lie there and breathe; he tries not to think about it. It can't be too different from how he usually feels, except that he's a little dizzy. He closes his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep. That's all he fucking wants to do, he just wants to sleep for a few days without waking up, wants his head to stop hurting. That's all.

He thought it would happen faster, this whole falling asleep thing. He wants out of this whole awareness deal that for some reason he's been forced to endure. It's a relief when he does feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. Maybe he'll finally get some rest and feel something other than the bone-deep tiredness that has taken over.

He dreams he forgot that Charlotte was supposed to come over, and she yelled at him and told him he needed to stop fucking up all the time. He hardly even knows what day it is half the time, he's not sure how he's supposed to remember when someone is supposed to come over or when he's supposed to go somewhere. It's a miracle he even goes to the right class at the right time. He dreams that Montparnasse is following him around campus, throwing his backpack away from him over and over again and he keeps tripping and can never get to it before he finds himself in another part of the school. He dreams he is drowning, coughing and spluttering and flailing to keep his head up, but his arms are so weak. He stops dreaming.

Grantaire hasn't even opened his eyes and his head is spinning. He swallows; his throat feels raw and dry and the back of his throat tastes like poison. Something prickles at the back of his hand-- he twitches his fingers and it hurts, so he stops doing that. Maybe he should try opening his eyes. It's all white and pale mint green and blurred together, everything is swirling and it's making him nauseous. He closes his eyes again and groans at the sick feeling that spreads its way from his stomach to the backs of his knees and the tips of his tingling fingers.

“Grantaire?” To his left, Charlotte's voice is gentle but too loud. “Are you awake?”

He turns his head in the direction of her voice without opening his eyes and swallows a few times before answering, his voice dull. “I guess.”

“Here,” He feels something against his lips. A straw. He swallows a few mouthfuls of water, but after a moment it feels heavy in his stomach and he has to stop. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy.” And he's still exhausted. Why is he still so fucking exhausted when he just woke up? “And tired."

“Do you want me to let you go back to sleep?”

Oh shit. He forgot he was supposed to call her so he could go over and they could have a weekend together. He sucks in a breath through his nose. His head is still spinning. “I'm sorry. I forgot about our weekend. I was going to call you like I said I would. I was going to come over. I didn't mean to forget.”

“If you'd called, I wouldn't have found you in time. I got worried when you didn't answer any of my texts.” There's a pause; he can hear her rub her palms on her jeans and swallow. “They had to pump your stomach.”

Oh. He forgot about that too. He tries to open his eyes to look at her, to see her reaction, but the room is still rolling and he shuts them again. “Charlotte, it's not-- It's not what you think.”

“Is it?”

“It's hard to explain. I didn't really mean to--” Well, he did, but he didn't. “I just wanted to go to sleep. I just wanted it to stop for a while.” If that meant disappearing forever, leaving, he wouldn't have minded. But he hadn't done it on purpose.

In the silence that follows, he drifts back to sleep. He wakes up still feeling dizzy, but when he opens his eyes this time, he's not immediately nauseous. A nurse is standing over him, checking his IV bag and marking something in her chart. Charlotte is still in the chair to his left, looking stressed and pale and he hates that he made her that way.

“You're awake, good.” The nurse comments, smiling cheerfully down at him. He feels patronized but doesn't show it. Why would you smile like that at someone you think tried to kill themselves? “I'll let your doctor know. She should be in briefly.”

She bestows another smile in Charlotte's direction before retreating to find the doctor. Everything feels very strange and sort of floaty. Charlotte leans forward and takes his hand, squeezing it gently. He doesn't squeeze back.

“We're going to hold you here for the next couple of days,” His doctor tells him when she arrives. A thin Black woman with locs piled intricately on her head, she has a serious but friendly face and her voice is soft and low so it doesn't hurt Grantaire's ears. “Until you're no longer a falling risk. Unfortunately, we cannot transfer you to psychiatric care because of your lack of medical insurance.”

“Oh.” He doesn't have much else to say. What else is there?

“He'll stay with me,” Charlotte assures the doctor. “I live close by.”

“It would be better if he were to find some way to stay here, or someplace else to stay to work on recovering.”

“I have no insurance,” Grantaire croaks out. “And sure as hell don't have the money to pay out of pocket. Neither does she. I'll be okay. I wasn't actually trying to...”

There's a moment of silence in which the room considers his statement, how incorrect it is. He knows he wasn't really trying to die. He also knows he wouldn't have cared if he had. They probably know too. The doctor flips her file back in order and stands.

“We'll keep you under observation for a few days until you're no longer a falling risk.” She turns to Charlotte. “I'd advise getting him some professional help that you can afford. I apologize for not being able to help any further.”

She smiles sympathetically and nods at both of them before departing. Charlotte looks at him and sighs. Grantaire can only not react. The wall across from him is bland and white and tired and he stares at it dully, unable to look at his sister. He has nothing to say, there is nothing in his head that might help him elaborate on any of this. He only knows that he is exhausted and everything feels awful. Charlotte stays until visiting hours are over. The nurse comes back with a dinner he can't eat; his stomach is still gnashing and he wouldn't be hungry anyway even if it wasn't.

Over the next few days, the dizziness dissipates and he's able stand by himself and shower and walk a small distance. He's still woozy and tired, but the fact that he is mobile is all the hospital needs to discharge him. They sit him in a wheelchair and wheel him to the entrance where Charlotte waits for him.

Grantaire leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window as she drives them back to her house. The world outside seems fuzzy and unreal. At Charlotte's house, he curls up in the corner of the sofa, the duvet from his room down the hall wrapped around his shoulders. Everything still feels like it's moving slightly too fast for him to comprehend, like he's hearing the echo of everything as it moves past him, registering every sensation seconds after it has reached him.

“Do you want lunch?” Charlotte asks from the doorway. “I can make something or order in. Whatever you want.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I'm not really hungry. You can get whatever you want. I don't care.”

“Grantaire, you need to eat something.”

“I'll eat whatever you want to eat.”

He watches dully through the counter partition while Charlotte makes food. Mostly he just sits there and wonders how he could still feel so goddamn tired after sleeping for most of his time in the hospital. Charlotte brings the plates out and sets them on the coffee table for them both, joining him on the other end of the sofa. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. It's a throwback to their childhood, a comfort food for both of them. Grantaire tears a piece of the corner and dips it in the soup, seeing a small smile on Charlotte's lips from the corner of his eye as she watches him. He knows he owes her an explanation, a conversation. He just hates talking about himself so much.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he starts. “I just wanted to sleep for a while, that's all. I wanted to stop feeling so bad.”

“You did scare me. You almost died. You should have called me.”

“I...I couldn't convince myself you'd care.” He squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head before she can say anything. “Shut up, I know it's stupid. I know. I just...I couldn't believe that you or anyone else would care if I just stopped being around.”

She scoots closer to him until their knees are touching. He tilts until his head is nestled against her shoulder. “We need to work on getting you better, okay? I know we can't afford therapy or whatever the doctor wants you to have. But you have me and I'll do anything I can to help you.”

“The university has therapy sessions? I-- I guess I can go when I get back.”

He feels her nod above him. “Good. But for right now, you'll stay with me, okay? We should let your professors know, though.”

“What do I say?” He picks at a loose thread of the duvet, then at the cotton that pokes out of the hole when the thread rips away. Charlotte covers his hand with one of hers.

“Tell them that you're dealing with mental health problems and won't be able to attend class. Email them and ask if you can do the work and turn it in at the end of each week, or something. Just be honest about what's going on.”

“Um. Okay. I think I can do that.”

“Do you want to let your friends know what's going on?”

“No!” He can't imagine the overwhelming ache that would come from any of the Amis visiting him right now. The feeling of not fitting in, of not really being part of the group. Combeferre and Enjolras silently judging him. Bossuet and Jehan pretending to care or know anything about him. Marius and Bahorel being falsely jovial because they feel so awkward. No, he couldn't do it. “No, I don't want them to know. I'll just tell them when I go back to school.”

Meaning he won't be telling them at all.

\----------------------

Charlotte goes to his dorm and gets his art supplies and schoolwork for him so he doesn't have to worry about running into anyone or answering any questions. She puts everything in his room for him. He sits at his desk and stares at them.

“Maybe try and paint?” Charlotte suggests. “About all this or-- or something?”

He does try, and manages two full canvases and half of another before he runs out of steam and finds himself limp against the wall. Neither of the paintings are very good, but at least he's done them. By the morning, most of his professors have responded in the affirmative, allowing him to do his homework without coming to class, so long as it's in their email or physical inbox by the end of each week until he comes back.

He's here to rest. He's here so things are easier, so he's not so stressed, so someone is around who knows him and can take care of him. He's here so he can start to get better, or some semblance of it. He just doesn't know how to start.

It starts with Charlotte sitting on his bed one afternoon and him lying on her lap like they would when they were kids. It starts with talking, just a stream of word vomit for hours as he tells her all the things consuming his brain, all the thoughts that feel real or stupid or awful. About how tired he is all the time, about how he just wants to stop existing for a little while, so he can untangle all the knots inside of him. About how he feels sometimes like nothing is real or how he feels like he's always, always going to fail. About how he hates being himself and he aches from every joint and his own brain feels like it's eating away at itself. Everything that's been crushing him for weeks on end. It starts with her listening, her hand stroking his hair.

When he's done, she gives suggestions and he nods. But he's uncertain that he'll be able to do anything she suggests, that he could succeed at any of the ideas she offers. She seems to understand, and gently clarifies that she's there to help, that he isn't required to do any of this, that it's only some ideas to try, that not everything will be possible and not everything will work out, but they have to try.

Enjolras' words come into his head: If we _don't_ try, we won't get anywhere. If we at least make an attempt, maybe there will be some change.

It continues with sibling trips to museums and restaurants, getting him out of the four walls of his bedroom and the enclosure of the house. Stimulation in small doses is good. He's starting to remember what it feels like to have something other than fog and dead flies in his chest. He does his homework each night, Charlotte sitting beside him on the couch reading her book. It's easier to do the work when someone is next to him, so he can ask her if this sentence looks okay, or if he's understanding the question right, or just so she can be a presence of quiet encouragement near him. It continues with trying out her suggestions, seeing what works, working together through Grantaire's tears and frustrations and anxiety attacks to figure out solutions to problems or ways to cope at least.

She doesn't say it, and neither does he, but both of them are glad he's been able to avoid drinking through all of this. It doesn't mean he's better, it doesn't mean he's not still a recovering alcoholic. It just means his willpower and his support system is stronger this time. They both know recovery and detox is harder each time. Neither of them wants him to go through that again.

It's been four and a half weeks since he came home to Charlotte's and he's finally getting the hang of being a person again. He can do his homework and turn it in on time. He's starting to smile and laugh and make jokes that aren't dripping with darkness or self-deprecation. He still feels like his brain and chest are shaky and fragile, and nothing is perfect and everything has cracks, but it's better than it was.

“I think you should start thinking about going back to school, Grantaire.” Charlotte suggests at the dinner table.

“Yeah,” he sighs and stabs randomly at the chicken on his plate. “I know. It's just-- I'm scared it's just going to get bad again. I'm scared I'm going to stop feeling good and it's just going to get shitty again like it did.”

“If it does, you need to call me. I'll help you in any way I can.” She reaches across the table to grab his hand, squeezes it to make him look into her face. “I'm here for you. Call me when you start to feel it. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

She nods and they go back to their dinner. “Why don't we pack this weekend? We can email your professors tomorrow and let them know you're coming back to class. We can call about the therapy sessions, too.”

\---------------

Apparently Charlotte tidied when she went to get his stuff, because his sheets have been washed and changed and his bed has been made, his camera has been packed away (he wonders if she looked first; the thought sort of scares him) and all the clothes and papers and soda bottles and things that had been littering his floor and desk have been cleaned up. He hugs her when she enters with his pillows in her arms.

“Thanks, Charlotte. You're the best.”

“You're welcome.” She grips his shoulders and stares into his face. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Take the bus over if you need a break from this place. I'm always here for you.”

“I love you, Charlotte. Thank you so much.”

“Anything for my little brother.”

He does go to class that week, but he keeps his head down and sits in the back of all the classrooms. It's going to take a little bit longer for him to come up with the courage to talk to the Amis again, to come up with some sort of excuse, to build up the walls these past few weeks have torn down. He's seen Jehan glance back at him in art history more than once; he's sure he still looks tired and unhealthy.

Maybe he'll go to the meeting next week, and maybe everyone will just accept that he's been gone and now he's back, and maybe these people will be tactful enough to smile and continue on with their day, and maybe no one will ask questions. Or maybe he should just come up with a story before he goes. He had a family emergency (he really did, though it was more Charlotte's emergency than his), he wanted to spend time with his sister (that's not technically wrong), things overwhelmed him and he needed a break (also very true), he was ill (he was, he still is, he will continue to be; he's just in a remission with an unknown time limit and no known cure, and god he hopes someone will find something someday).

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that is a thing that actually happens in the US. If you don't have insurance, they can't technically hold you or put you in the psych ward once they've stabilized you unless you've been 5150'ed or you answer their questions about wanting to hurt yourself etc in the positive (and even then, the whole no insurance thing is a problem).


End file.
